


A Wee Misunderstanding

by KarlyAnne



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boys Kissing, Clueless Sherlock, Crack, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, For Science John, For Science!, Frottage, Gift Fic, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Kissing, Love, M/M, Misunderstandings, Patient John, Penis Measuring, Penis Size, Romance, Sequel, Smut, at least one of them is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 11:14:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4135368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KarlyAnne/pseuds/KarlyAnne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John, I… I forgot the measurements. The tape. It’s under the bed. We failed to examine ourselves within the window of opportunity, I’m sorry. We should repeat this when my mind is in a state of more adequate alertness.”</p>
<p>As a reply, Sherlock received an emphatic snort followed by an, “Oh, we will. We’ll repeat this in all states of alertness. I’m off to shower.”</p>
<p>Sherlock could do nothing but lie in his bed, hands steepled in front of his mouth, and silently praise John for his commitment to repeating an experiment under varying conditions.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Sequel to CWB's Little Wee. The experiment continues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Wee Misunderstanding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cwb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Little Wee](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380993) by [cwb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cwb/pseuds/cwb). 



> So, in order to show my unwavering devotion to CWB aka Bee, I promised her a birthday fic.
> 
> To assure I tailor it to her wishes and avoid a "What the fuck is this? What made you think I'd want John dressed like Tinker Bell?!" kind of scenario, I made this:
> 
> <https://www.surveymonkey.com/s/FVRSHM3>
> 
> Little did I know that her choices will add up to one hell of a challenging prompt. But if Bee gives you lemons, well... You better practice writing explicit before her birthday is upon us.
> 
> Thus before I write her prompt, I’m practicing.
> 
> Inspired by her, dedicated to her, pretty much like everything that squirts out of my metaphysical quill nowadays. And, since she is such a generous soul, it is also beta’d by her.
> 
> This is a direct sequel to CWB’s Little Wee. May not make sense if read independently. You are passionately advised to read Little Wee first. You are passionately advised to read Little Wee.
> 
> Also Beta’d by PurpleHairedTree who is very busy but always graciously offers her expert help anyway. I’ll bake you a cake, I promise.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

  

When Sherlock woke up on the morning following the Day of the Pink Tape, he woke up alone. He had a solid plan to analyse the day prior, but a case – a strong eight – happened, along with some hand-to-hand combat, some hardcore mind-work and leg-work and hectic exchanges all-around.

On Friday, a few days later, John and Sherlock came home in the early evening and dragged themselves up the steps to their flat.

There was tea and toast in front of the telly and a very familiar domesticity, the kind predating Pink Tape Day.

They reclined on the couch together in a semi-catatonic state and Sherlock felt the post-case lethargy starting to wash over him. Ever since the day John Watson had first limped into his life, he had gradually started to accept, and even welcome, this feeling.

A couple of hours after they landed on the couch, a slightly disoriented Sherlock woke up with his face firmly attached to John’s shoulder and his back advising he’d finish this particular nap in his bed, and perhaps commit to something more extended, say, an eight hour sleep.

A warm finger traced the shell of his ear, following by John’s sleepy voice declaring, “Off you go. You're for bed, come on.”

In his woozy state, Sherlock mechanically complied, toddling off in the direction of his room with John at his heels.

Sherlock went through the usual routine of shedding his dressing gown, extricating himself from his slippers and crawling between his sheets and only then registered that something wasn’t quite as usual. Beside him, John mirrored his movements. John then planted his face firmly in Sherlock’s extra pillow, released a deeply contented sigh, mumbled a “good night, Sherlock” and approximately fifteen seconds later was snoring with impressive skill.

Once more Sherlock was determined to get to the bottom of these anomalous occurrences, but the past few days finally caught up with him and he soon joined John in his unconscious state.

The next morning, Sherlock did not wake up alone. As a matter of fact, he woke up less alone than he had in years. It was quite clear that John arose before Sherlock, and that some parts of Sherlock arose before Sherlock as well.

John was wrapped over Sherlock’s right side, rhythmically kissing his shoulder and purposefully dragging his right hand up Sherlock’s left thigh.

“Morning,” was John’s distracted greeting.

“Morning…?” came a greeting of Sherlock’s own.

“D’you sleep well? I really did. Feel all rejuvenated. I think our schedule today is going to consist of a nice cuppa, these biscuits I noticed earlier and am hoping are Mrs Hudson’s doing, and a whole lot of nothing. But first things first, yeah?”

John rolled fully on top of Sherlock, deftly pushing both his and Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms low on their thighs, introducing his erection to Sherlock’s and his mouth to his neck.

Sherlock had not yet caught up with what it was exactly that was transpiring in his bed that morning, but any hope of catching up was lost with the easy slide of John’s penis on his, gliding relentlessly over him with the assistance of an impressive amount of pre-seminal fluids and accompanied by what he belatedly recognized as his own appalling grunts.

John picked up pace, mouth hot and open against Sherlock’s clavicle, one hand gripping one arse cheek, the other holding on to Sherlock’s shoulder.

“God… this is… this is fucking amazing.” John was now panting against him, tense and sweaty.

Just as Sherlock started contemplating the inevitability of his orgasm, John let out a shockingly long moan accompanied by a, “Yes! Yes… God, yes!” and came all over Sherlock’s cock and abdomen. Sherlock’s cock, in an autonomous decision, saw no choice but to retaliate with its own immediate orgasm.

Sherlock lay flat on his back, eyes open but not seeing much, as John kissed his temple and rolled off and away from him.

Just then, something occurred to Sherlock.

“John, I… I forgot the measurements. The tape. It’s under the bed. We failed to examine ourselves within the window of opportunity, I’m sorry. We should repeat this when my mind is in a state of more adequate alertness.”

As a reply, Sherlock received an emphatic snort followed by an, “Oh, we will. We’ll repeat this in all states of alertness. I’m off to shower.” Sherlock could do nothing but lie in his bed, hands steepled in front of his mouth, and silently praise John for his commitment to repeating an experiment under varying conditions.

It occurred to Sherlock he might've made a significant mistake this recent time. If the façade of scientific inquiry is lost, John might not want to do this again, even if his semi-lenient demeanour towards Sherlock allowed to let this one slide.

He hoped it wasn't too late.

Sherlock, a singular mind and sharp intellect, was admittedly out of his depth here.

What he could ascertain though, was that the Day of the Pink Tape happened due to a combination of circumstances that aligned to provide him with that unobjectionable sexual experience; John was going through a bit of a dry spell and thus was more receptive to sexual solicitation. Also, it was a somewhat slippery-slope kind of situation that started quite innocently and developed into something more, and – perhaps most importantly – John has always had a more-than-strictly-healthy tendency to humour Sherlock and be his enabler no matter how peculiar of a proposition he managed to concoct.

The problem was that whatever the conclusion of their exploit, it didn’t mean anything.

The bigger problem in this particular instance was that the very moment Sherlock completed the aforementioned deductive process, he also realized that he very much wanted it to mean something. Something sustainable, preferably.

Sherlock, sticking to what he does best, examined the additional evidence.

John was apparently motivated by scientific considerations, perhaps not generally as much as Sherlock, but at least to some degree in this case.

John was clearly amenable to the physical act. John was a very sexual being. He liked sex. And was never too selective in choice of a sexual partner.

If Sherlock is a choice of convenience, made easy by the experiment, then Sherlock must clearly make it both appealing and convenient. And since John was a man of integrity, maybe he could also continuously appeal to his sense of duty as a man of science himself.

If Sherlock made a compelling argument as to why this experiment needed to continue despite this morning’s mishap… If Sherlock was skilled enough and consistent, perhaps convenience would prevent John from seeking sexual gratification elsewhere for the time being.

Sherlock was turning all sorts of ploys in his head when his phone went off.

“Sherlock, there’s a body you need to look at.”

“Of course there is, Lestrade. Have you gone through the mental checklist I provided you in order to ascertain whether this body was worth the kinetic energy used for retrieving my phone?”

“Yes, Sherlock, bloody hell, yes, it’s very similar to the one from two months ago.”

“Fine… but if by ‘very similar’ you mean the victim was Homo sapiens and died because his heart stopped, I’d be very put off.”

“Just get here, will you?”

 

Fifteen minutes later John and Sherlock were both seated in a cab, nearing the crime scene.

When they arrived they went through the usual, brief, motions. Eventually Sherlock went for the body and John kept some distance, enough to have at least one eye on Sherlock and one ear toward Lestrade.

Sherlock was immersed in examining the body, crouched with gloved hands hovering and poking. He heard John and Lestrade making some idle conversation behind him – by virtue of his superb hearing – but paid it no mind until:

“You’re currently available, John, aren’t you?”

“Hmmm?”

“Dating, John. You’re not seeing anyone at the moment, are you?”

“Are you offering, mate?”

“Sod off… Laura – that SOCO from the vanishing panda case – apparently saw you and your epileptic dance routine during Christmas party. It would seem she fancies you quite a bit now. Damned if I know why.”

“Oh, you don’t say. That’s actually quite flattering.”

“So, what do you say? Sounds like something that might interest you?”

“Normally, it would have. But I’m actually not quite available anymore.”

“Is that so? Good on you, John. When will we get to see this particular lady?”

“Probably sooner than you’d like.”

“That scary, is she?”

“You’ve no idea…”

At that point Sherlock was not quite listening anymore as a slight feeling of abhorrence rose to greet his throat.

John was seeing someone. He hadn’t been able to deduce this nor had she been to their home, which meant that with a wise counter-strike Sherlock might have been able to drive her away before things got too serious. This didn’t sound extremely challenging since he had quite impressive credentials in the field of girlfriend-repelling, and he hadn’t even used his penis in past cases.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, one cannot fight what one cannot encounter, and the mystery woman remained a mystery. Not a mention by name, not a date, not a phone call or email and, of course, not a visit to their home.

Sherlock had to hand it to John, he was being clever about this one. This could’ve only meant one thing: John saw this as a long term thing. He kept her away from Sherlock because she held some degree of importance to John and he didn’t want Sherlock to ruin anything.

 

A few days passed with them not sharing a bed – since Sherlock hadn’t slept in the conventional sense – and Sherlock had to admit that things were not developing promisingly. He had a general plan, to come up with an elaborate roadmap, to orchestrate an executable operation, to provide John with a diverse and hopefully satisfying sexual curriculum, but honestly, since that spectacular morning rut, nothing had happened.

Sure, he was distant and seemingly busy with John looking at him with amused exasperation – which was one of his main just-for-Sherlock looks – but this was not promoting his agenda. He planned on doing some excessive research regarding sexual experimentation, but there was simply no time.

To hell with all of this.

“John.”

“Sherlock?”

“We haven't compared measurements when exposed to mutual manual stimuli.”

“Why, Sherlock, that’s borderline irresponsible.” John was clearly amused, but wasn’t turning him down. Good.

“Yes. So, whenever you have a moment, we could… proceed. With this particular… experiment.”

“I’m quite free now.”

“Now? Now. Yes. Now seems adequate. I’ll retrieve the measuring tape.”

Sherlock couldn’t quite comprehend why he was suddenly being so awkward about the whole ordeal when he was the one who originally provided the baseline for this entire thing by devouring John’s penis without a moment’s hesitation.

This whole _caring_ business really wasn’t helping anything.

John sat there, looking exceedingly amused still.

“You do that.”

The pink measuring tape lay forgotten under Sherlock's bed, having stayed in the same spot to which it was kicked on the day which started it all.

He picked it up, noting it was now sporting a crispy crust, and headed back to the living room.

John was reading the newspaper, the very picture of nonchalance, comfortably seated in his chair.

He looked up to send a tiny closed-mouth smile Sherlock’s way, Sherlock, who stood at attention in the middle of the living room, vibrant pink measuring tape presented in hand.

“Right. Where shall we do it?”

“You tell me, Sherlock, you’re the scientist.” The same indulgent smile played on John’s lips.

“Yes. Of course. The couch. Seems like it offers the best visibility from a location and lighting perspective as well as satisfactory accessibility for the both of us, to, ah… minimize the influence of environmental factors and exertion of the participants on the, ahm… experiment.”

“Right. The experiment.”

They arranged themselves on the sofa, half-facing each other, the damn little smirk never really leaving John’s mouth.

Realizing no help was coming from John’s direction, Sherlock opened with, “Well, I suppose we should begin this session.”

“C’mere,” was John’s only warning before leaning forward, securing Sherlock in place with a hand on the back of his head and John’s mouth unapologetically on his.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a tiny little voice – getting ever smaller by the second – told Sherlock that as alarmingly amazing as it felt, this was a very fleeting pleasure which may jeopardize the scientific endeavour as a whole. However, that tiny little voice soon washed away with the rest of Sherlock’s liquefying insides and all that remained in his mind was, “Yes, yes, this, yes. Always, this.”

John pulled back. The residue of the same damn smile still apparent.

“Well, now that we have that out of the way, manual stimulus, was it?”

“Yes! Yes. Manual. That’s correct. I have the scientific aid, right here.” Sherlock solemnly indicated the measuring tape.

John’s smile turned into a giggle.

“Well, then, Sherlock, everything seems to be in place. Why don’t we lose these,” said John, moving to free Sherlock’s cock from trousers and pants in a demonstration of efficiency that Sherlock couldn’t help but inwardly applaud. However, his inner applause was but momentary, since John decided to demonstrate his coordination as well, reconnecting with Sherlock’s mouth, giving Sherlock’s cock an enthusiastic stroke, and placing Sherlock’s right hand on his erection encouragingly.

Sherlock lost all ability to make sense of what was going on in his head or his body.

Later, Sherlock would have no clue how he managed to summon the faculties to string an almost coherent sentence, but it must have been some instinct of self-preservation which made him pant into John’s mouth saying, “Joh… John… the tape, get the tape… coming… need to measure,” a split second before coating John’s hand in warm fluid.

Eyes shut, mouth heaving for air, Sherlock felt John’s hand leaving his penis to return a moment later with John’s other hand and something colder than body temperature.

“What do you know, measurement post ejaculation following manual stimulation identical to last time with oral stimulation. For you. And, look at that, for me too… Who would’ve thought?”

Only then did Sherlock realize that his own hand was covered in fluid as well. At some point John had reached his own orgasm. God… He had to pay closer attention next time. He couldn’t continue to lose control like this.

John got up, only to return a second later to wipe Sherlock’s hand clean.

“Are you satisfied with the results of this experiment?”

“Yes, quite. Though repetition is key in such cases.”

“Git.” John dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead and went to make tea.

 

A while later, though, Sherlock could not help but come to terms with the fact he was operating under uncertain conditions, which he did not like one bit.

Desperate for more information, Sherlock resolved to take some extreme measures and consented to going with John, Greg and “some other blokes from the Met,” as John referred to them, to a pub quiz, that very same night.

It all went generally as Sherlock expected; the food was mediocre, the conversation not even that, the pub quiz questions were of the absurd variety and hardly justified any attention and all the people apart from John were pathologically boring.

He was having a great time.

Until a mildly inebriated Lestrade and his ludicrous questions made it their mission to ruin his mood twice in the span of a few days.

“John, this new one must be doing something right, you’re looking rather well.”

“I guess that’s why they call them beer goggles, Greg.”

“Oh, come on… Don’t need to be a detective to see you’ve been getting a leg over. That good, is it?”

“Well, it’s rather new. And I’d hate to kiss and tell, but… It’s good. It’s really really good.”

No.

John and this woman have slept together. Here he was, trying to fend off the inevitable, and he’s already too late.

Sherlock dove for the exit. He could vaguely hear Lestrade asking John, “Where is he off to?” and John replying, “Haven’t a clue, probably remembered that he left some experiment on the verge of combustion,” as he pushed through the door.

 

Sometime later he found himself in their foyer, walked in and went straight to his bedroom. Under his sheets, he was in a state of half-consciousness for several hours, finally dozing off after hearing John entering and moving around the flat.

 

The next morning, he managed to drag himself out of his room after John had left for work, and spent the day mainly sitting still.

He’d promised Lestrade he’d come by to look at some evidence and was just reluctantly getting ready when John came back home.

“There you are. Haven’t seen you since you skipped out of the pub yesterday. Nothing was on fire when I got home so I assumed crisis was averted. Going somewhere?”

“Meeting Lestrade.”

“Oh, try and be civil, yeah? He’s sporting one hell of a hangover. I probably won’t be home when you get back, but I put some takeaway in the fridge.”

Sherlock stopped his bustling to stare at John.

“You’re not coming with me?”

Sherlock wasn’t even sure why he was asking. He wasn’t very keen on being around John at the moment.

“Eh, do I need to? You’re just going over some evidence, aren’t you? You hardly need me for that. Anyway, I promised Ellie from work I’d take her out for coffee.”

“Right! Right. Then by all means _go_ have your coffee with _Ellie_. This is my fault, really. The fact you sometimes offer marginal assistance on cases caused me to forget that creatures of moderate intellect such as yourself couldn’t be expected to prioritize essential work over inconsequential dalliances. My mistake.”

With that, Sherlock turned on his heel and rushed down the stairs, hearing John shout after him, “What’s got your knickers in a twist?” and not caring.

 

Approximately two hours later he came back to an empty flat and proceeded with the sitting-and-staring he’d perfected long ago and utilized freely in the past few days.

An uncertain while longer the front door opened, followed by John’s tread on the steps and John manifesting in front of him.

“Hi.”

Nothing.

“Ready to talk?”

“How did your date go?”

John’s eyes widened briefly, followed by a firm nod and lip pursing.  

“No.”

“No?”

“It wasn't a date.”

Eye contact was established for the first time in approximately a day.

“It... Wasn't?”

“Ellie, from the surgery, just broke up with this huge twat of a bloke so I promised her I’d take her out for coffee and let her blow off steam. Are you all right, Sherlock?”

Sherlock looked puzzled.

“So, who is it?”

“Who is what?”

“Who have you been seeing?”

“I’m… I’m sorry?”

“You have been seeing someone. You told Lestrade so on two separate occasions to which I was a witness. I assumed it was this… Ellie. But apparently when it comes to these…” He gesticulated impatiently, “things, even I am not free of faulty deductions.”

“No, you most certainly aren’t.”

John took a step toward Sherlock and looked straight into his eye, making sure his words registered.

“Sherlock, I’ve been seeing you. I thought it didn’t call for explicit recognition as I quite vividly remember you being there.”  

As Sherlock was not the kind to gape, he was not entirely sure what it was exactly he was doing in the wake of John’s declaration. What he did know, was that John was wearing that patient-but-determined look of his that meant that sometime – most likely quite soon – Sherlock will have to come up with some sort of a rejoinder to this new information. Something of substance and relevance.   

“We… An experiment?”

“Not an experiment.”

“But... For science...?”

“Oh, for the love of god, Sherlock... What kind of fucked up science is that?”

John made slow but constant progress over to the couch until he stood looming over Sherlock, eyebrows raised slightly. Still demonstrating signs of troubled patience.

He sat down. Pulled a bewildered Sherlock towards him.

He kissed Sherlock. Pulled back, hands firm on the sides of his neck, thumbs brushing cheeks, eyes smiling.

“John.”

“Yes.”

“So, now, we’re… Us. With some extra pastimes and… exclusivity?”

“Yes.”

“You want all of this? Permanently? Me and my... little wee, as you so eloquently call it.”

“Sherlock, whether little or as imposing as The Shard, I couldn't care less, as long as it's attached to you.” 

**Author's Note:**

> "Homo sapiens" is a singular phrasal noun. 
> 
> SOCO: Scenes of Crime Officer.
> 
> Epilepsy is no laughing matter. For more info: http://www.epilepsysociety.org.uk/


End file.
